Fans search for one last slice of happy at Uncle Fun

Novelty store set to close Jan. 26, leaving many wistful shoppers in its wake

January 09, 2014|By Kevin Pang, Tribune reporter

On Wednesday, the day Chicago emerged from its deep freeze and decided it was OK to venture out once more, Deborah Shaw-Staley traveled from her home in the Portage Park neighborhood to Lakeview's Uncle Fun, the certifiable happiest store in town. She saw its longtime owner, Ted Frankel — Uncle Fun himself — standing by a cabinet of wind-up robots. She went in for a hug. And when she emerged again from Frankel's shoulders, she began crying. This came as a surprise to her. That said, it was the store she brought her daughter Violet after doctor's visits, where mom bought flip books and bacon-flavored gum to cheer up her brave little girl. Shaw-Staley wiped away her tears, and lamented:

"Where can I go to get my fake poop anymore?"

Effete non-fake-poop-practitioners can stiffen their upper lips till they cramp, but Shaw-Staley brings up a legitimate question: When Uncle Fun closes after a quarter century on Jan. 26, where will a generation of scamps, pranksters, merrymakers, rascals and scalawags turn? The Internet?! Does the Internet allow test-squirting of disappearing ink on your unsuspecting sister? Does the Internet provide the tactile pfffffftttttt of whoopie cushion appraisal?

Uncle Fun, for the unfamiliar, is a curated garage sale with a business license. It peddles silliness, kitsch and nostalgia, the type of ephemera stuffed inside birthday party grab bags or given as white elephant gifts. Recall the back pages of old comic books, with the clip-out ad offering X-ray specs and sea monkeys — Uncle Fun is that catalog come to life.

Ted Frankel is retiring to Baltimore. He owns an Uncle Fun-esque store there, called Sideshow, inside the American Visionary Art Museum. Frankel is moving there to be with his husband, whom he married in September after being set up on a blind date nine years ago. But Frankel still owns a home here, as well as the storefront at 1338 W. Belmont Ave. that Uncle Fun has occupied since 1989. He doesn't know what will happen with the space.

But those details would be settled at a later time. By Wednesday it had been four days since the store announced its closing on Facebook, drawing many comments with variations on the word "No": "Oh no" and "Noooo!!!" or "NNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOO!" Inside the store, a stream of customers flowed with shopping baskets in hand. Everything — the Scottish terrier cane-toppers, the New Kids on the Block trading cards, Aladdin on VHS — was selling at half price.

Said Holly Dixon, a longtime customer who brought home Chinese effigy paper and an armless skeleton: "This place is a big work of art that you can take little bits of it home."

For the sale, Frankel decided to open up his basement storage, where even more boxes of fake moustaches and rubber chickens sat. This is the stuff that didn't make it onto the main showroom.

Frankel claims two criteria in selecting his merchandise: it has to look good (he spent years as a graphic designer) and it has to be odd. Why a purple Ricky Martin lunchbox with matching Thermos? It's purely intuitive.

"If my inner voice says 'Go for it,' I do," he explained. "And if I'm stuck with it, I don't care, because I liked it to begin with."

Thirty-eight years of selective hoarding are on display here, tchotchkes dating back to the days of Goodies on Halsted, Uncle Fun's precursor. There were items left over from Frankel's now-closed Fly Paper and Paper Boy, the stationery and paper stores sharing that same jocular sensibility.

Frankel stood by the rack of novelty "shock" lighters, across from the prints of Mexican pulp fiction cover art, beneath the photobooth pictures he took with Michael Jackson when the King of Pop came into the store years ago.

"It comes from me being really shy," he said. "And because of my stores, I've become less and less shy. Everyone who comes in this store is a kid. Some are just in bigger bodies."

Frankel was interrupted by an employee asking how much to charge for a vintage monkey doll from Japan. Three dollars.

He continued: "When you come to my shop, it doesn't matter if you act like a kid and ask stupid or funny questions. When you go into the real world, you play by their rules. Once you're in here, you're OK."

The man exuded a sunniness so bright it was blinding.

Frankel explained: "I've had a good therapist."

And so, with every My Little Pony tote bag out the door, Uncle Fun fades further away.

A gentleman named Pete Faustino unearthed a dusty, teal, vaguely Rosie-from-The-Jetsons-looking robot head from the basement.

He said: "What a cool little thing!"

What is it?

"I have no idea what it is."

How much does it cost?

"I have no idea."

The cashier, Erik Vogt, charged him a dollar for it. And then Faustino stuffed a wad of cash — multiple fives and ones — into Vogt's hands. For the employee fund.